Spiral
by oldfashionedromantic
Summary: Modern: When Christine's father dies, her life starts spiraling down can an Angel of music save her from herself? (Erik/Christine)
1. The Hospital Room

**Spiral**

**Chapter 1**

**The Hospital Room**

Christine Daaë sat alone in the dimly lighted room where Charles lay with a compress on his forehead. Her father had been on life-support for two days now and she and her mother had done everything they could to keep him alive. But they were not so wealthy as to afford the long term care or cruel enough to leave him on it if they did. For it was his greatest wish to never be in a vegetative state. Well that and to marry her mother, and have a family but since those were already fulfilled that just left the other. And it did not look good for him, the end was near.

Lung cancer was the terrible hand that took him away from them and though he had fought valiantly it was a galloping one. It had grown quickly and ran like wildfire from the lungs to the brain, swarming like locus around him so black and dark that no light would penetrate it. The chemo did little for the light could not seem to break the blackness of the inner blemishes taking his life. He had fallen in the bathroom two days ago and they had rushed him to the hospital where the years of avid and (supposedly sophisticated) smoking cigars had taken their toll on him.

Dr. Wilson had come into her father's room the night before and told Lotte in heavily accented French (her English was not very good) that he believed her husband was brain-dead and it was time to pull the plug. Christine, in the limited French she understood from her classes only got the words, "dead, pull plug". She had wept so hard that night that her mother had told her that she could stay with her father that night. Lotte had then, (upon her daughter's request) returned home to sleep, leaving the girl with her ailing father. She sat by him looking for the entire world like a beautiful angel kneeling by the sickbed of a man she awaits to escort to heaven.

She was a child really, only sixteen, but beautiful none-the-less, the true definition of beauty. Her long chocolate hair, pale as her mother Lotte, with the blue eyes of her father always bright with innocence and naivety that was she was cursed with at birth. Charles Daaë was a handsome man, blonde and curly-haired like his Christine. It was easy to see that she was his daughter, mostly because he told everyone. No, the whole of London knew that she was Christine Daaë, the famed beauty of the good man who was everything a woman could want.

Charles was a world-bestselling novelist who was most famous for his famed book about Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, entitled everything and nothing. His book was the newest thing in London and of course everyone knew the story. They were tales of a man who was deformed and horribly ugly but could sing like an angel and Lotte an orphan whose head was always in the clouds. How she loved the man for his voice, but knew nothing about him and in the end he left her alone for a man she knew before him, driving him so mad with love and rage that he was forced to let her go and she did. Only to leave the poor deformed man who loved her to go on alone in the world.

Publishers and critics alike often begged Charles to write a sequel, but his book, as he often said, needed no sequel, not that anything did. Her father had always hated sequels and when people asked him what his inspiration was he would always take out his cellphone and flash the wallpaper that was a photograph of him, Lotte and his daughter. 'This is my daughter,' he would say, 'yes, my daughter believe it or not. She is my wife's image is she not?' When they said that she was indeed the image of his _lovely_ wife he would grin in that charming way and say, 'She's little Lotte, my baby is my inspiration.'

Christine had often told him that she did not like it when he said 'believe it or not' that she found it mocking, but he always laughed at her and said, 'ah but I say that because you are so beautiful and my child I as you know am no more than a sentimental old man.' She would laugh at that and then she would go to do her arithmetic with his help of course. He was there for her when she wanted to learn to play the violin and never missed a single performance she had. He was there when she graduated eighth-grade as Valid Victorian.

When she took ballet he was there right beside her mother, turning his cellphone off and telling all his publisher and editors to leave him be while he watched his Little Lotte. Charles had always been an unstoppable man, charmer in every sense, a man who was loved by all who knew him, the kind of man who just lived to love and gave his best at it every day. That was how he used to be; before three days ago, now he was lying on the chemical-smelling bed of St. Almond Street hospital, looking pale and sick. A monitor beeping above him and IVs galore with wires protruding from him, his breathing labored and weak.

The soft pattering of feet came to her ears and when she turned she saw her mother pulling off her sweatshirt and winter gloves. Her makeup was smeared as though she had been crying, the beeping of the monitor beeping eerily. Christine looked over at her and felt the tears coming to her eyes, the nurse brought in the food and Christine took the Jell-O and threw it into the trashcan. She could not stand the sight of it, her father had always made Jell-O when it rained and she did not want to see it. After a minute she tossed the whole tray in the garbage because there was always the nagging thought that her father would never eat again….

"Christine, baby, come here." Her mother's voice was soft.

She did as she was told, going to her mother who wrapped her arms around her, shaking and trying not to cry for her sake. That was something she loved about her mother, so strong and gentle even when her heart shattered.

"Let go mum, cry…" she whispered knowing that she needed to.

"No, he hated it when I cried." Lotte whispered, though her voice was strained.

"Bloody hell mum- excuses the language- but he's unconscious, do you really think he cares?" Christine asked and immediately regretted it.

Lotte cried then, crumbling to her knees and covering her face with her hands, her daughter felt a stab of remorse. "Oh _mon ange,_ _s'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît ne pas dire de telles choses!"_ Christine sighed, knowing for the first time just how much pain she was in. When her mother started to speak in only French she was in agony that she could no longer hide.

"Mum…Mummy…" she whispered leaning down to take her into her arms.

The older woman held her for a long moment and then they heard the sound of a cough and then a wheeze. Turning the two women saw forget-me-not eyes looking worriedly at them and the two of them went over to the bed where her father lay. Lotte smiled weakly through her tears, stroking the blonde curls from his sweaty forehead. He raised his hand to cover hers with bumpy fingers calloused from the constant tapping of the laptop keyboard.

"Little Lotte, "he wheezed, then turned to his wife, "Charlotte, my Lotte, my dark-haired beauty."

"Yes Charlie, I'm here, Christine's here too." She whispered kissing the corner of his mouth.

He weakly turned his head just enough to give her a sorry attempt at a kiss, and Christine could see sweat dripping from his forehead at the simple excursion. Charles lifted his hand to beckon her over and when Christine came and sat by the bed he smiled. Taking her hand in his he used the rest of his strength to stroke Lotte's hair. Christine waited with him as she prayed that he would be okay, tugging at the zipper of her coat, a nervous habit that meant she was troubled or frightened and one that drove her mother nuts.

"Christine, baby, I want you to do something for me," her father wheezed.

"Yes papa?" she asked.

"Remember the vocal lessons you took?" he asked her, she nodded, "Sing me that song that won you the lead in choir that love song…"

She nodded, how could Christine deny him this, a simple trivial thing like a song to carry him off. Christine blinked hard, knowing it may be his last request, closing her eyes she froze hoping she had not forgotten the words. For a moment fearing that she had in her distress she was shattered to think that she must deny her father this, but opening her eyes she gazed into his blue eyes, that pleading look and just like magic the lyrics came flooding back. The teenager began in a shaky voice that grew in confidence every time her father smiled, or weakly brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

_"__What'll I do when you  
Are far away  
And I'm so blue,  
What'll I do?  
What'll I do when I  
Am wondering who  
is kissing you,  
what'll I do?_

_What'll I do with just, a photograph  
to tell my troubles to?  
When I'm alone  
with only dreams of you  
that won't come true,  
what'll I do?  
When I'm alone  
with only dreams of you  
that won't come true,  
what'll I do?"_

Charles sighed in content with his daughter's voice, "Thank you Little Lotte that was beautiful."

Her mother rubbed his back as he coughed harshly, "God is good, he let me wake long enough to say goodbye."

His beautiful voice made her want to weep, but the teenager refused to break down when her mother was in such distress. She watched her father and mother looking soulfully into one another's eyes. They were both saying goodbye and begging one another not to leave, just to hold on for one more minute. One more moment, one more second as he loosed his wife's hand and went limp. His chest, heaved once twice, a third time before he closed his eyes and prepared to go into that horrible eternal sleep that was otherwise known as death.

"Remember to follow your dreams Little Lotte and that I am always there even if you cannot see me." He told Christine as he stroked her face.

His wife nodded, but Christine made no move to agree, she could not forgive the one who had stolen her father no matter what the circumstances. God or not this was all his fault. Her father was leaving her forever and she did not care if he was there in spirit where she could not touch him. Then he breathed in and let out the 'rattle' of his dying breath, the monitor went off, _beeeeep, beeeeep, _Lotte had begun to cry, and the nurse came in to turn of the cold florescent light above his bed. Christine knelt down by her weeping mother to take her in her arms but said nothing.

She knew that no amount of comforting words would help her this time.Her father had passed on into the next world. The cold beep of the monitor told her that it was over and Christine felt nothing, just a cold numbness down to her toes. The nurse, a fat woman with the face of a pig came in and covered the body while the doctor lifted his poor widow to her feet. Charlotte cried out as she was led away but Christine did not say a word. She just sat silently in the dark cold hallway with other crying people who had the ability to feel, knowing nothing but the cold hand of living death.

Her mother tried to reach for her but she didn't hear the words coming from her lips, she barely registered the feel of her mother leading her to the car. The ride home passed in a haze and the next thing she knew she was in her room. The too-quiet room seemed to echo with the memories of the one she had lost, his voice his eyes, his smile…. His everything seemed to swirl around her at infinite times like she was going in and out of a revolving door. It was a painful one at that, she lifted her cell phone and on the wallpaper is her father, smiling and happy with her and her mother, in the bright morning sun. The sights of him like that, smiling and joyful made her angry and she threw the phone against the wall.

It clattered and she screamed out. "You bastard!" she cried, throwing the framed family picture on her nightstand. "You left us!" she stomped on the picture not caring that the glass crunched beneath her feet.

She kicked the wall so hard that she stubbed or broke her toe, not sure which she collapsed on the bed screaming. "Christine," her mother's voice, groggy with exhaustion, "I'm coming in."

"He left us… that son of a bitch left us…" she sobbed.

"Shush angel…"

In the ruckus her mother came upstairs, and forced the door open seeing her curled in a ball in tears she didn't know she had. Charlotte sighed and held her close making shushing sounds while Christine screamed and screamed until she vomited and then lay limp in her mother's arms. Charlotte didn't say a word, letting herself absorb her daughter's pain and sitting there, feeling her own over and over again. But it didn't matter her father was dead and the world was a swirling downward spiral.


	2. The Other side of the tracks

**Spiral **

**Chapter 2**

**The rough side of the tracks **

**Three weeks later on a rainy morning**

Erik woke that morning to the annoying buzz of his alarm clock; he groggily got out of bed. The red numbers flashed 4 a.m. and he yawned and took out his leather jacket, slipping it on and grabbing the black acoustic guitar from behind the bed. He went out to the back porch to play for an hour or so before he watched the sunrise as he did every morning. His footsteps were silent as he slipped on his mask and tip-toed passed Madeline's room hearing her snore. It was the kind of snore one had when they were weighted down by excessive amounts of alcohol. That or heroin, either way she was on it, he didn't know what she was on but it was it.

Sometimes it came in liquids, sometimes in powders like neat little lines of snow in perfect rows. She would suck them up through her nose and then shake her head like a dog drying off its shaggy coat. A mangy shaggy coat so dirty and splattered with God only knew what. When she ran out of snow it was the needle. Honey colored juice that made her emit orgasmic moans as she rocked back and forth and then fell into a stupefied slumber, dark circles under her eyes and a deadly rattle in her throat. When the drugs ran off and no money was available well then it was an ocean of booze, cheap stinky booze. Its odor churned his strong belly.

He didn't really care at this point what Madeline did as long as she and his stepfather stayed the hell out his way. This was Madeline's usual M.O. So he paid no attention to her. He shook his head, he never called Madeline 'mother' to himself, and she didn't know how much he hated her. Erik kept walking not bothering to quiet his steps as he walked passed their spaniel and tapped his knee. Sasha got up groggily and padded up to his knee where he bent and rubbed her fuzzy brown head. He kissed the animal, the only one in that house that loved him since dad had left. He sighed and looked at the laptop on the desk, his stepfather was coming home tomorrow from a 'business trip…' as he called them.

Business indeed, the good Dr. Étienne Bayer was seeing someone way off in New England some hot young nurse. Erik did not know her name, nor did he really give a shit, because he wasn't his father so what the fuck ever. His father the great Giovanni Deluca was a good man and he loved him, and soon he would take him to Italy to be with his stepmother and sister Luciana. There was always the promise, always the broken promise. He sent Erik money and afforded him the best education money could buy. But Erik would give anything, _anything _to be with his father day to day away from the doctor and this junkie mom of his.

He called his dad, it rang once, twice, a third time, and the voice on the other line was too steady and robotic. "_This is Giovanni I am not here right now, leave a message and let me get back to you as soon as I can." _As the woman gave the obligatory automated instructions he just hung up.No point in leaving a message, he never did he just called to hear his father's voice. Sometimes his father answered and Erik loved when he did, it was one of his favorite times, the only comfort he had in the world was his father and he knew that no matter what by him at least he was loved.

He turned the computer off and turned away, going to the coat rack and pulling off the long black evening coat his father had left him. He slipped into it, feeling for a moment almost as safe as he had felt before his father had left. It slipped and billowed around him and he walked, like an old-fashioned gentleman to the sliding doors which his mother never bothered to lock. Erik peeked out and slid them aside with a harsh scrape on the metal rails that held them in place. Erik stuck one foot out the door, reveling in the hushed chill of early morning beauty, blowing pure breath out of his mouth and marveling at the smoke.

He reached the porch and strummed softly on his instrument tapping it to a beat as the sky turned from black to blue and then a dull yet somehow brilliant shade of yellow. It illuminated his mask in its intimacy, warming him with a silent promise to keep his dark secret. He played a dark song he had written, one of love broken always longed for but never quite reached. Erik wanted to write a happy song but he had nothing to be happy about, so his songs were sad and forlorn. Erik hadn't written any lyrics for it so he just tapped along with the beat of the cords.

Erik closed his eyes and turned his face to the warmth as he heard Madeline getting out of bed and coming to the backyard. She stopped and he heard the fridge open, heard the clink-clank of tin cans rattling and the pop-pop-fizz of a can of beer open. The first one in a long line of them he was sure and that meant trouble. He snuck around to his back window and into his room, because if he didn't bad things would happen. Yet there was something strange about today as she crept toward his room, something he couldn't have ever predicted.

He hopped into bed and waited for her to go by, breathing slowly when he heard the thunking of her feet. Erik closed his eyes pretending to sleep when she came to the door, she pulled him out of bed and handed him his dry toast and water. He ate it, this was all he ever got for breakfast anyway and so he didn't even taste the dryness of it. Erik knew she only fed him to keep him quiet and shut the courts and teachers up, and he was lucky she fed him at all. He looked up and noticed the sky had turned to an almost black shade of grey and grabbed the black plastic trash bag that survived as his raincoat prepared to walk the three miles to the academy.

"No, I'll drive you." Madeline said.

"What why?" he asked.

She cuffed him hard on the back of the head, "Cuz I said so, you little shit!" she took a deep throaty chug of her beer and muttered something about his father.

"It's time for you to pack your shit, for your school boy…" she muttered.

'_Ah so that's why she's doing this happy to get rid of me,'_ Erik thought, eh what the hell he didn't blame her. He couldn't wait to get away from the house either.

"Too good for you if you asked me." She grumbled before letting out an unladylike belch.

Erik blinked a couple times as his mother lit a cigarette and took a long drag, blowing the smoke through her nose. He couldn't help comparing her to a dragon as he said nothing, watched her tie the sash in her gaudy pink bathrobe and walk out to the car. She rarely drove him to school, even in the snowy winter making him walk the whole way till his nose ran like a faucet, must mean she had some important client she wanted to impress but still or company coming over and that meant a few hours of 'mommy' before things went back to normal. But no sooner had he done this than it started to rain.

"Thanks for driving me mom," he told her.

"Don't say I don't do anything for you." She snapped.

"Of course not…" Erik whispered to himself.

She turned up her music, some love gone wrong slow jam that she sang to in a high whine of drunkenness and general inability. The rain fell in a heavy deluge, thundering on tinted windshield of the black corvette as it thundered loudly in his eardrums. His IPod offered little help for the noise and he felt his head start to pound. Erik leaned against the window groaning and watching his breath solidify and mist on the black glass. He looked over at his mother whose perfect black hair and makeup where never out of place as she listened to some god-awful country song about how some loser had lost his truck to a girl after she screwed him. Erik sighed and fingered out a skull and crossed bones in the breath-fog, before closing his eyes and attempting to sleep for the five minute ride there.

He never slept well these days but no sooner had he closed his eyes then the car stopped and jolted him forward. His mother said nothing as the automatic doors swung open and he climbed out, she never said anything to him anyway unless it was a cold behave boy, or you know what you'll get. He sighed, squaring his shoulders as he looked up at the ivy covered pile known as Garnier High and thanked his father wherever he was that he had left him at least the ability to get a good education. He needed it now more than ever; and so on this dreary day in September in New York he entered the school.

He trudged up the stone steps and into a foyer where a bunch of other students were standing, beautiful and pompous as they sipped magenta fruit punch from little glasses. Erik stood in the back, watching the pretty people in their snobby ways. Erik himself had no friends it didn't really bother him, he liked it that way. Erik occupied himself with the beautiful architecture of the place, blues light as the sky and a fireplace made of stone with the fires in the hearth crackling and popping gently amidst the chatter of the people. The antique grandfather clock was stained redwood and it ticked almost as musically as a metronome as a large brass bell waited to be rung just above their heads.

Just above the fireplace was a large painting of the headmaster Charles Garnier and around the room several paintings of other professors and staff. Erik had all of their classes at least once and was an academic favorite for most of them. But still he didn't really care as long as he got straight A's and outwitted all these imbeciles. To say he literally had _no _friends would be stupid he did have a few but he was so selective that his friends were few and far between. There were four of them, including himself all together a gaggly gang of miscreants known to the other students as the Phantoms.

He spotted them on the other side of the room, Nadir, a dark skinned Iranian boy, Darius a pale boy, so white Erik called him Spooks. He was from Malta with eyes darker than coal and hair to match and Rothermore, a weasel of a boy who was obsessed with Rats. Erik just called him "the rat catcher", a cunning devil of a man but Erik was their gem. He was the leader of their group and they called him, the Opera Ghost because he loved music and never got caught at his pranks. He hailed them with a loud whistle and they walked over to him, Roth whispering to Fang the rat in his pocket and making a chattering noise with his teeth at it.

"Hey man…" Darius said clapping him on the back.

"Insallah DeLuca," Nadir said, using his surname.

"Khan, Spooks, Rat." Erik nodded to the three of them.

"Hey man," Rat chittered between his overbite.

"Welcome home," said Spooks.

Erik smiled, he really was home at the academy and he inhaled the heavy smell of ink and chalk and mothballs.

Nadir smiled at him and clapped him on the back and the other two stood behind him as the bell tolled its third chime. The students went quiet as Garnier descended the stairs in his old-fashioned way of his, black waistcoat and outfit buttoned to the top, his fat belly protruding a little despite his efforts to cover it up. He stood before them and cleared his throat as he lit the mahogany pipe in his mouth and blew out great puffs of grey from his fatty lips. Erik waved the smoke away from his nose, trying not to gag as he batted it away from his sensitive nose.

"Welcome to another term." Said the pudgy man and then walked off.

"Garnier was never a man of many words…"Erik murmured as he headed down the hall.

"Nah" Rat told him, "Anyway enjoy your new roomie…"

Erik stopped dead. "What do you mean?"

"Garnier made the new girl room with you," he told him, "Overcrowding you know…."

He sighed, he let out his breath in a slow hiss that he had not been aware that he was holding. He had never had a roommate before then, no one had ever seen fit to room with him. In this enlightened age where disabilities were acceptable, his deformity was still the subject of gross disgust. And a girl? They were not usually allowed to room with people of the opposite gender. For obvious reasons, this was a recipe for disaster. It was going to be a big one too, and then there would be trouble for Erik because if he just avoided her then he would seem rude and that was grounds for detention if she complained.

The academy had a zero rudeness tolerance not only was it an educational institution but also a finishing school. Erik shook his head, he didn't care as long as she stayed out of his way. He headed toward his room and when he opened the door he stopped dead. The girl was unpacking, her hair tied in a tight bun and she looked over at him. His heart stopped.


	3. Rules of Cohabitation

**Spiral **

**Chapter 3 **

**_Rules of Cohabitation_**

Christine wiped her eyes, she didn't want to be here, in New York. She wanted to go home to England. She wanted her mother, and couldn't believe her mother would leave her here in America. She looked down at the pocket knife she was holding and her hand shook. No, not now, mustn't cut here, too many people. But the urge was there, always there in the back of her mind. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. She never ate more than once a day anyway, so what did it matter food was easy to resist, but she was more than addicted to the knife.

No one knew of course, the scars were easy to cover up with some foundation and the baggy clothes could be explained with a simple 'I'm cold' or 'they are comfy' and people would leave her alone. As long as she obeyed the rules she set for herself no one was any wiser to her issues. They were as follows. No hugging or intimate touching, no getting too close and never, ever be naked in public. Just go numb and when the emotions came the knife was there to fight them off with its wickedly comforting gleam. Slicing and oozing searing heat and liquid warmth reminding her in that moment that she was alive.

It made her a social outcast, and made her mother worry. Especially when she decided to look the part with all the Goth and black. It got her sent here but that was usual, her mother wasn't responsible for her condition and she had her own grief to deal with. Her love had died and left her with the burden of a teenage daughter. It wasn't her mother's job to make sure she was okay. Christine could take care of herself, but she ill felt abandoned. Not that this was anything unusual, no one loved her, not her mother and certainly not her father.

Oh sure they said they loved her, every day several times a day but even that started to sound like a lie. A lie that she was just so sick of hearing. Her father had not loved her enough to stop smoking and her mother had given up on her after just two weeks of dealing with her pain. True her ascent into hell had been rapid and things had gone bad from the night after the funeral. But still…. She sighed, the urge overwhelming and she gave in, the knife begging her to let it take the pain away. Christine slipped the blade up his sleeve and cut her forearm, sucking her teeth to hide the pained moan that wanted to come.

She had just closed her eyes when she heard the wooden door creak on its brass hinges and someone step into the doorway. Christine turned to see the person who had just walked into the room, her dyed black hair hanging in her face and her Goth-style makeup smeared. Christine wiped the snot from her nose and stood up straighter, not wanting to appear weak. First impressions were the most important, or so her father had told her. That and she couldn't get a very good look at the newcomer when she was hunched over and weepy. The door creaked open and she heard somebody clear their throat, a male voice she was sure. She sighed, of course it was. The newcomer was the boy she was rooming with.

"May I come in?" he asked and something about his voice washed over her.

"It's your room too." She tried to feign nonchalance.

"Indeed it is." He agreed, "But a gentleman always asks a lady before she enters a room."

Christine wanted to laugh. If only he knew! "Well come in."

He did and she looked him up and down, finding his turquoise eyes intriguing as he studied her with a pensive look. He reminded her vaguely of a vampire what with the leather jacket and the guitar case, his pristine wife-beater was so crisp that the white fabric almost blinded her. It clung tight to what she was sure was a six pack and his hair was dark and thick. But the most striking thing about him was the mask that covered the left side of his face. It was black, midnight black and covered an entire half of his face and made his eyes just pop with their colors.

Christine wondered briefly what was under it but pushed the thought out of her mind because prying was rude. He seemed to be studying her reaction to him with a very Jane Austen look that reminded her of Mr. Darcy. He had a curiousness about him, his mouth set in a permanent but certainly not unattractive frown that appeared as though it would shatter his face if he smiled. He never took his eyes off her as he stepped into the room and set down the black guitar case on the other bed in the room. Still looking at her while he put his clothes in the pull-out shelves under the bed.

She noticed that his clothes were old-fashioned, polo shirts and designer slacks. Very Victorian, open-necked white ruffled shirts. They were obviously dress shirts and formal wear, as he neatly folded four pairs of black and grey jeans. He was obviously not a very colorful person, and she watched him. Noticing his shirts were blue, midnight blue like just after sunset when the sky first darkens to nighttime. Whites and blacks and dark blues and even a little bit of crimson, and maroon and deep red. Christine had never seen such a shade of red before, not in clothes at least. This red was not cherry or light but deep and muddy almost…blood-colored.

The thought made her shudder and she decided to think about something else. He had interesting sneakers on, they were white with black toes and laces like a piano with little white eighth-notes printed on them. Obviously he was a music lover which didn't surprise her, they were both enrolled in the music program well she was at least. She had no idea what he was in here for, but he was smart because this was an exclusive school. Garnier academy for the incredibly gifted and exceptional was the one school that no one could buy themselves into.

So he must fit the criteria, in some way or another no matter what his curriculum was. He seemed to not notice her as she watched him settle in. He laid on his bed with his hand tucked behind his head it was no surprise to her that while she observed him, he did the same. Turning and still watching her with those curious eyes of his, watching her and sweeping her side of the room with a curious look. The way he eyed her like he was a cat playing with the best, juiciest mouse for his next meal. It made her skin crawl a little bit and she felt this sudden urge to blush, her face growing hot as she looked away. She felt his stare, his eyes probing and watchful. Almost feline in their intensity and it made her uncomfortable.

"Take a picture it will last longer." She snapped.

He blinked, "Forgive me." He said, his voice even and melodic, "But since we are to be living together till summer I think we should establish some rules."

"Rules," Christine echoed.

"Yes _rules." _He said, his voice firm.

"Just who do you think you are?" Christine asked, not liking him already.

"I am the person whose space you are invading." He told her in a matter of fact way.

She sighed, technically he was right even though she had no choice this had been his room first. She imagined he was the type of guy who had his things the way he liked them and didn't want them fussed with. He was watching her with this look of paternal sternness and was waiting for her acquisition. She sat down on the bed and got out a pen and pad, humoring him because although he wasn't scary there was something commanding about him. This aura of absolute authority, like he had been used to getting whatever he wanted, just the way he wanted and when he wanted them.

She looked at him and had to fight the urge to roll her eyes as he nodded his approval. Like he was superior to her in some way, and damn it if she didn't blush again. His mouth turned up in a smirk, a humiliating thing because he obviously now thought she was a silly girl. She wanted to scream, throw her notebook at his mask and stomp out into the hallway. That or stick out her tongue, but both of them seemed childish so she held back. He seemed to be telepathic, because he laughed at her. He actually laughed at her!

"It's all right Christine." He told her, "I am sure these rules won't be hard for you."

"How did you…" she trailed off.

"The sticky note." He told her obviously.

"Oh." She said stupidly, looking down at the 'Hello-my-name-is' tag on her shirt.

He smirked again, "Since I know your name, you should know mine. Erik Deluca."

He was Italian, well that explained a lot and she could tell already from that smile he was a mysterious boy. Hard to get to know and possessing a lot of old world charm that made him one of those guys moms worried about. With a voice like that, she could just tell he was trouble from the minute he opened his mouth. He held out his hand, a hand shake was not to intimate and she could manage that without arousing suspicions. Christine placed her hand in his, surprised to find that it was cold as a stone. Cold and strong, and smooth like a river stone or polished marble and then she noticed how pale he was.

"Christine." She said nervously, hoping he would let go and he did loosen up a little.

But before she could draw her hand back his fingers closed securely around hers in a gentle but non-retractable grip. Then the worst thing that could have happened did, he kissed her hand like an old fashioned gentleman and his marble-like skin made something throb between her legs. Instant attraction, not good she couldn't afford to get attracted to anyone. But damn he was strong and damn he was charming as he brought her hand to his surprisingly warm lips, brushing them with the slightest touch.

"Christine what?" he asked a little too gently for her

"Just Christine." She said sharply, snatching her hand back.

She was blushing and fighting the urge to rub the kiss into her hand, good God what was the matter with her? Christine watched his reaction, hoping she hadn't offended him although she wasn't quite sure why she cared if he was offended or not. But in fact, he looked content almost amused at her reaction to his touch. It made her mad and she wanted to ask him what it was about her he found so amusing but thought better of it for fear of finding out the answer. It was one of those questions she wasn't sure she wanted answered, but really he was getting all under her skin.

He raised his eyebrows, "Well 'just Christine' let's go over the rules. There are only two. Rule number one, do not ever, ever touch my guitar. Rule two and this is the big one, do not ever touch or ask about the mask."

With that he laid back down on his bed and closed his eyes, wanting to nap while Christine sat down on her own bed. She heard him fall asleep and when she was sure it was safe, she pulled out her knife and slit her skin again. Just the top of her hand, right where he had kissed her, this time pressing harder so that the tingling no longer remained. Just pain and disappointment as the bell signaled music students to go to their first class. When Erik didn't get up, Christine left quietly and went to her first class her hand burning and bleeding like the whole in her broken heart.


End file.
